Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 5

And I, ever the emotional one, the weak one. stood at my father's yawning grave braced between those two rocks in the cloudy morning-I, with my raven hair so different from their golden waves, my hot tears mingling with the cold mist that began to fall. I am different from them all-Bram, Mama, Papa. An outsider, subject to emotions and pa.s.sions and a restless uncertainty that my calm, steady family cannot comprehend. Indeed, everyone in this city, this tiny kingdom is so industrious, so even-tempered, so conformist and concerned with the practical undertakings of life that I feel out of place.

To please Papa, I followed in his footsteps and became, like Bram, a physician. But my heart is in my poetry.

Gerda understands. She is dark-haired, like me, dark-eyed, and I cannot help thinking we are cast from the same mould. I knew the instant I first saw her, all those years ago: her long hair matted and tousled, her eyes wild as she sat on the floor of her cell, knees hugged to her bosom. Not a pretty woman, but a striking one. Small and fine-boned, thin, with hollows sculpted beneath her eyes, her cheeks, that shadows seek out.

A madwoman, they said, but my brother had seen something more, and I saw from the expression on his face as he peered through the bars at her that she had already captured his heart.

As she did mine that day.

As a boy, Bram constantly brought home stray and injured animals; his generosity is as deep and boundless as the ocean that surrounds us. As a man, he has not changed; but now his strays are of the two-legged variety, and just as needy. She was one of his charity cases, Gerda was, abandoned by her father to the sanitorium, deemed intractably mad.

I remember Bram turned to me that day and, with far more tenderness than his usual clinical air of a physician making his rounds, asked, There is hope for this one, don't you think?Yes, I said. There is definitely hope.

I gazed into her eyes: troubled, tormented, and restless, ashine with sensitivity and the skittishness of an untamed deer. I knew at once I had met a kindred soul. No-not met.

Recognised.

And in one swift instant, my heart was stolen. It has been lost now four years, though I spoke of it to no one; certainly not my kind-hearted brother, who within a matter of eighteen months had healed her, wooed her, wed her. I watched her bloom beneath Bram's protective aegis, beneath my family's. I watched them bear a son.

And I have watched her once more grow unhappy, restless. Bram is a loving husband and father; but beyond his stolid dependability, he possesses his own restless drive, one that he submerges utterly in work and study. He is absorbed in his world of medicine and law; and now that he has salvaged Gerda, he is ever in search of new helpless ones to redeem.

Less dedicated to my medical practise, I have been home when Bram has not. On those occasions when Bram was off studying some new madman, some exotic malady, I became Gerda's squire, a doting uncle to my little nephew, Jan; indeed, I think I know him better than his own father. I contained myself, bore my unrequited love in silence all these years- though I fancied at times she signalled her secret love for me with special smiles and looks, comments that, when weighed carefully, might have carried double meaning.

But I, dutiful brother, did not permit myself to believe; and if I believed, did not permit myself to acknowledge. Bram has always been loyal, kind, tolerant of my temperamental outbursts; when Papa first became ill, Bram filled the role of mentor and fatherly advisor.

How could I betray him? Surely my capricious heart would find another object of adoration in due time; I would be patient, and soon my obsession with her would dwindle.

But the more I was in her presence, the more my love grew. Many a time over the past four tormented years have I returned in memory to that moment I first saw her huddled in the sanitorium cell-ah, but it is I who am now the madman, strait-jacketed by my own emotions. And now, what I have long dreamt of, what I have long feared, has happened.

Two nights ago-the evening Papa died-I was sitting downstairs in the drawing-room, in Papa's favourite chair, mourning. It was late, past mid-night, and the others were all asleep or weeping in the privacy of their rooms; Mama was holding vigil over the body. I was too restless for bed, too distraught even to stir the coals or light the lamp. So I sat in near- darkness, staring at the glowing embers in the fireplace, when my eye caught something white and wraithlike crossing through the room.

It moved stealthily towards the mantel, and as it stepped between me and the fire, I recognised Gerda. She wore nothing but her dressing-gown; I can never forget how, that night, the fireglow limned the white silk, revealing the slope of a perfect breast beneath. She took a gla.s.s and poured from Papa's carafe of port, then turned, clearly bent on making a quick escape with her prize.

As she did so, she caught sight of me at last, letting go of her gla.s.s with a loud gasp.

Fortunately, at that same instant, I rose instinctively, managing with no small amount of fumbling to catch the gla.s.s. Wine sloshed onto the fine silk of her robe, onto me, perfuming the air with a sweet oaken fragrance, but the gla.s.s was saved. The act left me pressed against her; my first impulse was to immediately retreat and restore propriety, but to my surprise, I moved closer, closer, until I could feel the rapid beating of her heart, until the world receded and I could see nothing but her eyes, as free from sophistication and guile as a feral beast, needing to be soothed and tamed by a tender voice.

She did not pull away. I knew then I had not deluded myself; she loved me as I loved her, and for a long, frozen moment we stood poised on the verge of a kiss.

It was I who finally, reluctantly, backed away. She stared at me a second more, then fled upstairs with her half-empty gla.s.s.

I was torn between grief over Papa's death and joy that, at long last, I knew my love requited. That night I shook off guilt and swore that if she appeared to me again under the same circ.u.mstances, I would not back away.

This evening-after all the mourners had left, and Mama had closeted herself in her bedroom, and Bram had gone to make his customary late rounds of homebound patients-I sat waiting in Papa's chair again, watching as dusk fell over the grey November landscape, over the flat muddy street, the carriages, the rows of neat brick houses all the same, the windmills beyond, the invisible lurking sea. The chair brings me comfort, for it smells of Papa and his pipe; I found one of his silvered blond hairs on the seat, and his bag of tobacco on the end-table.

I poured myself a gla.s.s of his port from the mantel and thought I understood why Gerda had come to drink it: the taste and smell evoked him so-not the sick wasted creature he had become in those final terrible days, but the laughing great blond bear who had loved his children, his wife, his patients with a cheerful, tolerant, expansive love.

I drank until the twilight faded to full darkness, until the street emptied and the house grew altogether still save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. I drank until at last I heard soft footfall on the stairs, then rose and moved to the hearth to stir the fire.

When I turned, she was standing in the doorway, once again dressed in the dressing-gown of white silk; this time, her dark hair fell free onto her shoulders, her bosom, her waist. We studied each other a time like reluctant conspirators, and then she said: "I heard a noise. I thought perhaps Abraham had returned."

Emboldened by the port, I held her gaze. "We both know he won't be back for some hours."

My directness unnerved her; her eyelids fluttered as she averted her gaze. I thought her on the verge of bolting like a hunted animal, but some strange determination held her back.

She squared her frail shoulders and said, "You look so like him, sitting there. Your father was a good man."

I shook my head. "I wish I were good like him. Like Bram."

She stepped towards me, her voice raising with the intensity of her conviction. "But you are!

You are good. Better than them all!"

"No. I am a dreadful man. Because what would bring me the greatest joy would only bring hurt to those I care for."

Silence. Then softly, so softly I could scarce make out the words, she replied, "Then I am dreadful, too, Stefan."

Her expression became one of such profound un-happiness that I began to weep, my grief over Papa's death mixing with honest sorrow at our predicament.

She moved swiftly to me. We embraced, not so much with l.u.s.t as pure unhappiness, and she stroked my hair, murmuring, "Hush, hush . . ." in the same gentle tone she uses to comfort her little son.

What happened next I am ashamed to relay. Whether it was the port, the grief, the very nearness of her that loosed the last of my inhibitions, I cannot say. But my lips found the soft white skin of her cheek, her throat, the sweet hollow above her collarbone; my pa.s.sion was kindled beyond all return, and I reached for her with the trembling desperation of a starving man grasping a crust of bread. Through some miracle, the white silk dressing-gown parted and fell away, revealing the sublime.

With swift desperate hunger, I took her, she standing pressed against the warm stone hearth. Or was it she who took me? She was a lioness, a G.o.ddess, full of fire and brazen need, reaching for me unashamed, sinking nails and teeth into my shoulder and gripping me with a fierceness that belied her frail body. Never was my spirit more exalted; never in a church, a chapel have I come closer to the numinous, the divine. It is the world that is mad, not I, to deem such ecstasy sin.

I was transported to the very gates of Heaven. How can this be evil, for two souls who so love each other to unite?

We coupled silently, violently; such was my excitement that I soon was spent. At once, she tore herself from me and hurried off into the darkness, leaving me to sink gasping to my knees upon the hearth.

Distraught at this abrupt abandonment, I struggled to rise, desiring to follow her, to profess my love and gain rea.s.surance from her; desiring only to be near her.

But before I could regain my balance, the front door slammed and I heard familiar footfall: Bram. I smoothed my dishevelled appearance and hid in the shadows, fighting to still my laboured breathing, praying that he would not enter the drawing-room.

My request was heard; he moved back towards the kitchen. I hurried upstairs and closeted myself in my room.

Were it not for the physical evidence that remains on my own body, I would have thought it all a drunken dream, the visitation of an incubus. But her dew, her scent lingers on me still (I cannot bring myself to wash it away), and my shoulder bears the stripes of her pa.s.sion.

What now? Morning will surely come and bring with it regret and fresh antic.i.p.ation. Shall I pretend it never happened and live in misery? Or shall I arrange to meet her again? Even now, the memory fills me with such fire that I imagine going to her door and finding Bram heavily asleep, and her restless, waiting for me. . . .

Abraham, my brother! How I have wronged you . . . and how I tremble with guilty delight at the thought of wronging you again!

I have found love at last. But my heart cannot understand the insanity of it all: Why must it be so difficult, so fraught with guilt? Why must my joy bring others such pain?

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 19 NOVEMBER 1871.

Death and the Devil, Lilli said, and she was right; the Devil has come, and murdered my heart.

Impossible for the day to grow more evil-so I foolishly thought-for it began in the cold grey morning with Papa's burial. It is hard to see a man who brought the world such good turn to dust, as we all shall. I try to take comfort in knowing that the results of his charitable deeds will outlive him by many years.

The funeral was a trial; I survived by comforting the others, which helped distract from my own pain. Mama was, as always, admirably brave, though I know she suffered the greatest loss; but poor Stefan seemed near nervous collapse. I stood beside him as we cast handfuls of damp earth onto the coffin, and supported him; had I not been there, I know he would have fallen. Gerda held my other arm, and she, like Stefan, wept openly, silently, the tears streaming down from her great dark eyes, her pale lips pressed tightly together as though fighting to contain a torrent of emotion.

Gerda, my tortured darling-I know there is no guile, no cruelty in your soul. Have I failed to love you as I ought?

So we laid Papa to rest, and I survived; survived, also, the following houseful of mourners, the platters of food, the flowers. Jan Van Helsing was much-loved, and all of Amsterdam, rich and poor, converged upon us to mourn him. Again I distracted myself by tending to Mama, Stefan, Gerda; and little Jan, christened after his grandfather and too young to understand his abrupt disappearance. Of the terrible memories I shall surely have of this day, one of them will be of my little son, barely old enough to toddle to the front door each time it opened to reveal a new guest, each time peering anxiously beyond them and calling for his grandfather: Opa?

And when day had waned and the last caller gone, I (like a fool, I realise now) indulged restlessness and habit and went to call on patients.

I was most concerned about Lilli-that is what she insists we call her, though she cannot remember her last name. We know nothing of her background, for no family has come to claim her despite our efforts to find them; most likely, she is a poor widow. Two months ago, she was found wandering the streets, quite delirious, raving about phantoms that visited her in the night and red eyes glowing in the dark. She was taken to a sanitorium, although she should have gone instead to a proper hospital, for she was half-dead of anaemia. I found her there and made arrangements for her to be moved to a private room in a boarding- house. Now that she has had proper rest and nutrition, the dementia has disappeared-with the exception of one delusion: She fancies herself a seeress of some ability and is quite obsessive about a pack of Tarot cards in her possession.

It seems a harmless enough delusion; she is a pleasant enough eccentric and even jokes with me about it. It is not her mental state that alarms me now but the physical: of late, her anaemia has recurred, despite all treatment. I am making notes on this, for its course is so atypical that I suspect it may be some new disease, for which I am eager to find a successful treatment.

There were many patients I intended to see that evening, but I called first on Lilli; and she received me that night with a great sense of drama. Per custom, I knocked on her door, which was slightly ajar, and entered when she called.

She was sitting propped up in her bed, her thinning white hair tucked beneath a night-cap, her bony shoulders covered by a shawl; in front of her, the pack of cards were spread on the quilt. To either side of her on the night-stands, a dozen tapers burned. They provided the only light in the room, and the effect was quite ghoulish. Lilli's skin was quite pale, her lips grey, and the wavering candleglow emphasised every shadow, every line in her wizened features; indeed, she looked like a child's conception of a witch. As I entered, she looked up from the cards to gaze at me with black liquid eyes, the whites of which were yellowed from age.

"Death," she intoned, with the conviction of a prophetess. "Death and the Devil visit you this night."

Had I not just buried my father that morning, I should have reacted to her melodramatic proclamation with an amused smile; as it was, I took offence. With somber dignity, I replied, "That is beneath you, Lilli. No doubt you have heard of my father's pa.s.sing."Her expression softened to one of sympathy-but her response was the opposite of what I expected. "Ah, yes. . . . Yes, I have, dear young doctor! Forgive my stupidity if my foolish words have brought you fresh grief-you, to whom I owe my very life." She paused to lower her face in an att.i.tude of reverence, and when she raised it again, she said, "He was a fine man, your father. There is not one in the city who does not owe him a debt of grat.i.tude.

Surely his soul went straight to Heaven."

"Surely," I said, but I could not entirely keep the bitterness I felt from my tone. It would be no small comfort to believe in the Heaven and G.o.d Papa did, to believe that he now rests in eternal bliss. The truth, the reality, is dreadful: that he and all his knowledge and kindness and love, all that made him what he was, is now mere fodder for worms. I dare not say so at home -not for fear of disapproval but for fear of breaking Mama's heart. She believes fiercely in the superst.i.tions of the Church; I hope they bring her comfort now.

With a bony arm, Lilli motioned me to take the chair at her bedside. I did, and she reached forth to place a cold hand, with its ridged yellowed nails, upon mine. "Dear young doctor, forgive me; I should first have offered you consolation on your father's death. But the cards . . . they speak so strongly to me tonight! And on your behalf."

Her eyelids fluttered; as if dizzied, she closed her eyes and raised a hand to her forehead, then leaned slowly back against the pillows.

"Lilli," I said. "You are not so well to-night." I leaned forward to examine her, holding on to her hand to surrept.i.tiously take her pulse. It was weak, thready, her skin grey and startlingly cold. "The anaemia has worsened a bit, yes? How have you been feeling?"

With her eyes still closed, she gave a self-deprecating little smile, full of good humour. "I have such strange dreams of late. ... I will die soon, I think." And before I could protest, she opened her eyes and said with sudden pa.s.sion, "Dear young doctor, you must believe! It breaks my heart to bring you such news -but better you should be forewarned. Please believe me: You have become as dear to me as a son."

I patted her hand. "That I believe, dear Lilli. But why are you so distressed? I know all too well that my father has died."

"Ah . . ." she whispered, her eyes glistening with honest pity for me. "I am so sorry. But your father's is not the death revealed here. Two deaths. Two deaths more are coming, and the horror of the Nine of Swords. And here"-she tapped a dog-eared card- "the Devil himself. Death and the Devil visit your house this night. Not yesternight, nor the night before, but-"

"Please," I interrupted sharply; it took her quite aback, for I have never snapped at a patient. She fell into surprised silence as I continued, less harshly, "Let us speak of other things. It has been a long and trying day for me and my family; let us rather speak of you."

So we did, for a time-she is of all my patients the loneliest, and I credit regular conversation and friendship among her most healing medicines. I bade her take her tonic in my presence, a sleeping draught to help her restlessness at night, and a small sip of red wine to help the blood. As we chatted of more amiable things, I found myself growing uncharacteristically morose in her presence, perhaps because I could clearly note her decline. I fear she is right when she says she will soon die.

At any rate, she scooped up the offensive cards and spoke no more of them that evening; not until she fell drowsy, and her eyelids fluttered, then closed at last. Thinking her soundly asleep, I rose and moved towards the door; but before I could close it, she called out to me, in the voice of the prophetess-a voice strange and melodic: "This is your fate, Abraham: The Devil seeks your house. Take care he does not find it. . . ."

In the doorway, I whirled, angered that her delusion should cause her to toy with my emotions at my hour of darkest grief. But her eyes were closed; she was in a sleep so profound, it could scarce have been feigned. So I left, troubled, hoping to ease my sorrowful anger by directing my attention away from myself and onto those who required it more: my patients.

I intended to visit another three or four, who by chance lived on the opposite side of the city from Lilli. By this time the sun had set and the streets had grown quite dark, but the drizzle had eased; rather than call for a cab, I walked. By the time I arrived once again in my own neighbourhood, the bracingly chill air and the exercise had calmed me. Quite by accident, I found myself once again upon our street, in front of our house -though my plan had been to take a slightly different, more efficient route. Indeed, I felt oddly compelled to return home, and I found my steps slowing as I approached it, suddenly overwhelmed with a growing unease and the desire to dispense with my rounds, to rush inside and make sure my wife and child were safe.

As I stared up at the house-the place I was born, the only home I have ever known-it became to my eyes strangely unfamiliar, even ominous, the way a loved, familiar object becomes, to a child's eyes, a monster in the dark. And as I stared, one shadow in particular captured my attention: a black moving form, the size of an ape, that hovered impossibly near a second-floor window-my mother's bedroom.

The sight of it caused a thrill of fear to course through me. I was convinced that it was malicious, sentient, alive-though what precisely it was, I could not have said; I knew only that it meant my family harm. With the panic that accompanies the worst nightmares, I moved silently, intently, towards it.

I never took my gaze from it; but as I watched, it appeared to melt into its surroundings and vanished before my eyes.

At the same time, I saw movement inside the window-though this may have been imagination, as my mother's room was very dimly lit. Imagination or not, the sight left me unsettled, and I determined to be sure my family was safe; so it was that I silently made my way up the front steps and opened the door so slowly, it made not a single creak.

Inside, the house was quite dark; everyone had already retired, or so I thought, and Mama had as always left the lamp in the hallway burning for me. I paused in the entryway, drawing in a deep breath so that I might steal quietly up the stairs to my mother's bedroom and listen for signs of trouble. I was torn between the odd, insistent sense of danger (which, I felt, had nothing whatsoever to do with Lilli's unbelievable prediction) and the realisation that my unease might prove to be quite ridiculous.

And as I hesitated at the foot of the staircase, my peripheral vision detected movement to my right, in the drawing-room. I retreated at once into the safety of shadows and peered into the darkness there. Beside the faintly glowing coals in the fireplace, a monstrous black creature writhed.

Or such was my impression; but as I watched, I realised this was not one form, but two, engaged in a cataclysmic struggle.

A low gasp came from one of them: With horror, I recognised my own wife's voice. In response, her opponent raised Gerda's arms-with a flash of the silvery-white sleeve of the dressing-gown I brought her from Paris-above her head and pinned them there, against the rough stone hearth. I almost screamed in fury at the attacker-but his form, too, was oddly familiar, for it was one I had known my entire life.My own brother.

When Papa died, I thought I had experienced the worst pain I would ever know. But he is buried deep in the earth now, and in time, his mark upon this house and my memory will fade.

Stefan and Gerda I must see every day.

I have tried several times to go the bedroom and lie down beside her, near little Jan's crib.

How shall I face her eyes again? It is not in her nature to deceive, to dissemble; her heart is always visible in her face, and I know that when I gaze on it again, I will see her guilt, her unhappiness.

I have not loved her enough. I see it now: I have been all these years a fool, more attentive to my patients than my own wife. For more than a year now, I thought I had detected too much fondness for him in her eyes, but I dismissed it as unreasonable jealousy.

To discover, to-day of all days, that I am right!

I could not confront them: what end would their disgrace have served? Can I blame them, knowing they are both of a piece, and that it was I who so often left them alone?

Instead, I retreated swiftly, then slammed the door with as much force as I could muster in that moment of utter despair.

I hid in the kitchen until I heard first her light steps, then his heavier ones, upon the stairs.

Gerda, Gerda, my fallen love! How shall I reclaim your heart?

And you, Stefan, my only brother . . . how shall I remove the taint and return to the innocent trust that was ours? We grew up so unalike, my brother and I, yet we were of one mind. He was the younger one, the pa.s.sionate one, the one who constantly required my rescue. Yet his daring inspired me to overcome my natural diffidence at times; and my constancy in turn inspired him.

We are not whole without each other.

Even my medical practise would be incomplete without him, for I am, like Papa, a plodding logician, orderly in my attempts at diagnosis. Most times this is useful, but there are times when it fails; then I rely on Stefan's brilliant bursts of intuition. For me, medicine is science; to him, it is art.

Where should I be without him? For it is he who so sweetly and utterly adored his older brother and taught me to love generously.

Perhaps if I had learnt the lesson well enough, I should not have lost Gerda now.

Oh, the Devil has come indeed; and the first casualty is my own heart.

Chapter 5.